Renegade of Callisto

6 Consequences of a Shower

For some inexplicable reason, it very seldom rains on Callisto.

When, however, it does rain on the jungle Moon, the precipitation makes up in intensity for what it may lack in its frequency. The word “deluge” comes aptly to mind on these occasions.

Busily intent on their approach to the copse of soaring borath trees, neither Koja nor Taran had noticed the swift and sudden darkening of the golden skies above them, as moist vapors gathered into storm clouds.

The first they knew of the sudden change in the weather was when they were unexpectedly sluiced from head to foot with icy water. And in no time at all, the naked boy was not only soaked to the skin but chilled to the bone to boot.

Koja did not enjoy being caught in the rain, but it made little difference to him. The chitinous armor wherewith Nature had clad his body made it unnecessary for him to wear any clothing at all (which is why only Taran’s clothes were shredded to make an extension on the mooring line, and not Koja’s too, in case you had wondered). Hence he had no clothing for the shower to soak through; the chitinous shell kept him from suffering any chill or discomfort from the drenching icy rains.

Fido, however, felt the cold wet intensely, and raised a sobbing, mournful howl to tell the world how miserable he was.

They were nearly directly above the tall trees by this time, so Koja played out his line to its last inch.

Taran sat hugging himself, his teeth chattering and his knees knocking wetly together, wondering if his ears were turning blue. As Koja played out the line, however, he peered over the side―and gasped, and bit his lip.

It didn’t reach.

Koja said nothing, as was his wont. And he didn’t bite his lip, but only because Nature had failed to equip his kind with lips.

The makeshift line was too short by at least twenty feet.

Taran groaned and began fumbling with numb wet fingers at his waist. He was trying to unfasten the knot that held his loincloth on, but Koja stopped him with a gesture.

“There is no need for that, my young friend,” said the Yathoon somberly. “Even were we to tear your clout into the very thinnest of strips, the grappling hook still would not reach the topmost branches …”

Taran was grateful for that much, at least. Wet through and too thin anyway, the loincloth, though it served to protect his modesty, afforded no real protection against the inclement weather.

Now Koja clambered out of the cockpit onto the portside pontoon. The laminated paper wherefrom the pontoon was constructed was slick with running water and slippery underfoot. A fall from this height would kill him instantly.

He lay face down on the pontoon and extended his arms beneath it, letting the mooring cable dangle to the greatest possible length, taking advantage of every inch.

It still didn’t quite reach.

If the Thanatorians were given to the worship of gods, Koja would have prayed to them then and there, or anyway he would have taken their names in vain by cursing; they were going to drift past the copse in another few minutes, and there their last chance of coming safely down would be lost. Then he heard a splashing above him, and, craning his featureless casque of a head around, he peered up over his shoulder to see what Taran was doing to make such a sound.

The boy was scooping water out of the cockpit in his hands, as you might bail out a lifeboat in a storm. For, obviously, so intense had the downpour become, the cockpit was rapidly filling up with rainwater.

Swiftly, the Yathoon turned to stare’ down again through the seething sheets of rain. Was it his imagination, or did the grappling hook now just barely brush against the uppermost leaves? And wasn’t the Lankar-jan riding just a trifle lower in the air than it had been up to now?

“Taran! Stop bailing out the water!” he clacked sternly in his cold, metallic tones.

“B-but, K-koja-ch-chan!” the boy complained through chattering teeth, “It’s nearly up to my knees in h-here-!”

“Do not remove so much as another drop of water if you can help it,” commanded Koja urgently. “Let the cockpit fill to the brim with rainwater, if it can. Hold Fido’s head up, if necessary―the mater we are taking aboard is weighing the skycraft down―another few inches and we shall be low enough in the air to permit me to snag one of the upper branches with the hook!” Inch by inch, the sluggish, wallowing craft sunk nearer to the crest of the tallest borath tree. Very little wind was blowing; so thick and heavy fell the deluge that the scoutcraft hovered almost stationary in the sky above the little wood.

The rain was slackening now as the storm clouds drifted slowly over the plains.

But, in time, the unexpected and sudden shower paid off in highly beneficial terms.

Slowly―carefully―with infinite patience, Koja at last succeeded in snagging the topmost branch of the tree. He tugged on the line once it was secure, causing the sharp metal hooks to dig deeply, until they had a firm grip on the soft, flaky bark.

Then―and only then―their perils ended for a time, the three adventurers could relax.

Koja drew the ship down, hauling it hand-overhand, taking in the slack of the mooring cable, until he was able to draw the Lankar-jan down to one of the larger branches, to which he doubly secured the craft.

Getting down from the tree presented a whole new set of problems, of course. Borath trees mostly grow their branches at the top and have smooth, straight trunks like the wooden masts of old sailing ships, which means they are not easy to climb down from.

But at last they managed it, taking the job in slow and easy stages. They fashioned a crude sling out of Taran’s loincloth, and lowered Fido (who complained vociferously every inch of the way) to the ground by this means, since the awkward othode pup could hardly have been expected to climb down voluntarily.

Once he reached the ground, Fido wriggled out of the improvised sling and shook the water from his fur vigorously. The first thing the pup did upon reaching the relative safety of terra firma (or is it callista firma?) was to waddle over to the tree, hoist the last two of his three left legs into the air, and salute the tree trunk in the fashion of dogs everywhere.

By the time that Koja and Taran got down to the ground the clouds had rolled away to reveal harsh summer light shining through the tall trees in fierce golden beams. Rather than climb gingerly back into his sopping-wet loincloth, which anyway was now rather strongly redolent of very wet othode, the lad simply stretched out naked in the daylight and let the warm radiance dry his skin and bake the chill dampness out of his bones.

Koja let the daylight dry his body, too, but he prowled around, poking through trees and bushes, searching the dead leaves on the ground, and testing vines as if looking for something. Taran wondered vaguely what he was doing, but the boy was exhausted by their long ordeal, and his knees were scraped raw and his leg muscles ached from the difficulty of climbing down the tree, so he was perfectly content to just lie on his back in the damp grass and doze a little in the warm daylight.

After some little time, Koja returned, his gaunt and bony arms filled with ripe fruits, edible nuts, and indescribably delicious green and purple berries which were the objects of his search.

Fruits and nuts are a sorry substitute .for a sizzling steak and a frosty beaker of foaming golden wine, but Taran soon discovered the first great truth of survival in the wilderness: when you are really hungry, almost anything edible tastes good.

His skin and hair dry, his body warm, and his stomach more or less full, Taran felt renewed. He got up, pulled his boots on, even though they were still a bit soggy, and wriggled back into his loincloth. It felt rather clammy next to his skin, but just getting dressed made him feel more like himself.

The three adventurers then compared notes and summed up the total of their resources:

1. One waterlogged but presumably skyworthy scoutcraft, which could be turned about and flown back to Shondakor if its broken control cables were repaired;

2. Two swords in decent condition, although without baldrics, the baldrics having been sacrificed to help extend the mooring cable;

3. Two healthy warriors, even if one of them was only a boy, both presumably able to give a good account of themselves in battle against man or beast;

4. One othode.

Thus baldly summed up, the total of their resources was not exactly a figure calculated to give them any particular confidence in their abilities to survive for long in the wild. Hence the quicker they made the flight back to Shondakor the better.

The afternoon had worn on by this point, and nightfall was perhaps an hour away, or a little later. Nevertheless, Taran and Koja hauled themselves back up into the treetops again, and, lying flat on his back against the branch to which the Lankar-jan was securely tethered, the young sky cadet made his repairs as best he could.

It wasn’t too difficult, actually. The control cables were nothing more than lengths of thin; tough cord which connected the foot pedals to the tailfin rudder and the ailerons on the edges of the wings. When the clumsy Fido had trod too heavily on the pedals he had dislodged them at that end. All Taran had to do, actually, was stretch them tight and tie them back onto the pedals again.

One of them, however, had broken in the middle. This one the boy had to pull together and fasten with a knot. Unfortunately, it was one of the ones that worked the tailfin rudder, and being knotted pulled it more taut than it should have been, which meant the rudder would be stiff and troublesome to work during their return flight to Shondakor. However, this was only a minor problem.

When the repairs were finished, Koja helped Taran get the water out of their airship by the simple expedient of turning the craft over so that the bilge, as it were, was dumped out. The pontoons were still airtight, and the craft itself, as far as they could see, was perfectly airworthy. Even the engine worked, having taken no harm from the rainstorm.

When they clambered down to the ground again so as to fetch Fido, they found an unexpected welcome.

Obviously, the othode was not quite as much of a liability on this adventure as they had erroneously assumed when they had compiled that list of resources I have quoted above. For while they had been aloft, working on the aircraft, the ungainly and stumblefooted pup had gone hunting. They came down out of the tree, therefore, to find one proud pup, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for them with dinner!

Fido had caught and killed two plump, furry forest beasts which rather resembled an unlikely cross between rabbit and squirrel, and might have resembled either of the two more precisely had it not been for the improbable color of their fur, which happened to be a bright pink.

These were, obviously, the same sort of creatures Bozo himself had caught and killed for Prince Lankar in the Grand Kumala, and which the Earthling reierred to as either “squirr-bits” or “rabb-ells.” The Thanatorians call such creatures uggars.

Fido was so pleased at his contribution that Taran ran over and hugged the grinning pup, who licked his face with a slurping tongue. Both he and Koja were hungry again, since berries and nuts are a pretty feeble excuse for nutriment for busy, hard-working adventurers, and the very thought of hot broiled uggar meat made their mouths water.

And they could, of course, depart for the return flight to Shondakor the Golden a wee bit later than they had planned.

So while Taran scrabbled about gathering dry twigs and leaves and moss for a cook-fire, Koja returned yet again to the treetop and came back down with the tinderbox wherewith a thoughtful and foresighted supply officer had decided each scoutcraft cabin should be outfitted.

By nightfall the two plump uggars were sizzling juicily above a smoky little fire, having been neatly skinned, gutted, and skewered on a sharp twig.

A little later they proved every bit as delicious as Taran and Koja had imagined they would be. The two polished off every last succulent morsel of their dinner, not forgetting to reward Fido with numerous tidbits and gobbets, and all of the less chewable parts.

By this time night had fallen, but not yet had the first of the many moons yet ascended to glimmer red and silver, blue and gold and white in the sky, like paper lanterns.

But it was still light enough for them to see the great black arrow when it clove whistling through the air to sink quivering in the trunk of the borath tree as they were about to begin climbing it for the return flight.

They whirled, snatching out their swords, as the first gaunt, stilt-legged warriors of the Yathoon Horde came charging through the brush to seize them.

7 Crimson Steel

Thrusting the boy behind him with one arm, Koja sprang forward to confront the charging warriors. From the baldric slung across his thorax, he drew his whip-sword and stood to face the attack of the unknown foemen.

The clan markings painted across the hard, shiny chitin of their breasts in scarlet, black, and purple were not at once familiar to him. This was odd, because Koja was acquainted with the insignia of each and every Clan in all of the mighty Yathoon Horde, and for there to have existed yet another which he had never heard of was virtually impossible.

But it had been some years now since Koja had last ridden with the Horde; obviously, in the interval, a new tribe or group of tribes had evolved into being. This was a constant factor in the life of the Horde. A disagreement between rival factions in the selection of a new akka-komor, or high chief, sometimes may result in the withdrawal of the defeated candidate, together with his followers, their retinues, cadets, servitors, and slaves, from the parent Clan to establish another. This was the case in the present instance, Koja assumed. But he found himself a bit too busy to give the matter much thought.

The warriors facing him were fully armed, as if for war. The Yathoon warriors, covered as they are with a slick gray armor of tough, flexible chitin like a crab shell, wear no clothing, save for such utilitarian garments as a war harness or a baldric, or both.

The baldric is a belt of red yathrib leather slung across the upper thorax from shoulder to hip and extending across the back. By its means the Yathoon warrior carries his whip-sword scabbarded between the shoulders (the arthropods, of course, don’t really have “shoulders,” merely armored joints, but never mind about that) . This is necessary because of the inordinate length of these weapons, which measure a full sixty inches from barbed tip to hilt.

The war harness, worn usually only for armed conflict with another Clan, is an affair of belts and straps worn over the shoulders and fastened twice about the upper portions of the thorax. From this several subsidiary weapons or accouterments are suspended by brass or silver rings: a scabbarded dagger about the size and length of a U.S. Army bayonet, an ugass; a small, light, throwing axe about the size of a Boy Scout’s hatchet; and sometimes a blunttipped, thick short-sword called a zak. A leather bottle of water or wine may often be clipped to the harness as well, as a soldier would carry a canteen. Generally, they wear an unstrung bow of black wood slung across the thorax, with a leathern quiver of black or scarlet arrows hung behind the left shoulder.

The warriors who faced Koja, silent and inscrutable and, for the moment, immobile, wore both harness and baldric, fitted out with all of the above equipment and accouterments. As well, they carried lassos of braided leather thongs, wound into tight loops and suspended from a hook on the left side of their harnesses, and with the use of these lassos they were uncannily adept, as I had good reason to know.

For a moment this silent confrontation lasted, but only for a moment and no longer. Then the leader of the troop―a towering brute with one of his twin brow-antennae broken off short, lending him an extraordinarily raffish, devil-may-care appearance swiftly reached with his right hand up over his right shoulder, grasped the pommel of his whip-sword, and sprang forward, leaning from the hips in fighting stance, and unlimbering his whip-sword, all at the same time and in the same easy flow of action.

Koja sprang to meet him, and they engaged their blades while Taran watched open-mouthed.

The Yathoon whip-sword is a terrible weapon, a slim, flexible strand of razor-sharp steel, tipped with a hooked barb whose shape resembles an arrowhead. The Yathoon fight with these by swinging them in deadly hissing circles, with which they weave a shimmering web of lethal steel before them, like an all-but-invisible shield. When they strike at each other, they snap the barbed tip forward and jerk it back, hoping to rip a jagged furrow across the face or thorax or abdomen of their adversary―thus slaying or crippling the foeman with a single stroke.

In open places, this cobralike whipping stroke is often made from mid-air. With their long, manyjointed legs, which resemble the hind limbs of the praying mantis or the terrestrial grasshopper, the Yathoon are easily capable of incredible leaps into the air. A Yathoon swordsman can and often does leap entirely over his foe, striking at his unprotected head as he springs over it. In this confined space, however, with tree boughs blocking the sky, such aerial tactics were difficult or even dangerous. So they fought face to face, snapping those deadly blades like sharp steel whips, leaping forward with each stroke and springing backward immediately after in order to avoid the counter-stroke.

It was graceful, even beautiful, in a cold, murderous way-like a ballet―a dance of death.

Koja and his challenger were well matched, of an identical height (some seven feet), with arms and also whip-swords of similar length. For a few moments, they fenced in this deadly dance without results: then the others, restive or impatient, sprang forward, one to either side of Koja’s opponent, the chieftain with the broken antenna, whose name later turned out to be Gothar.

Koja swerved sideways, swift and supple as a striking serpent. His whirling blade struck suddenly to the left, catching his hapless foe across the face. His eyes ceased being glittering black jewels and became a flying splatter of winecolored jelly. The barbed tip caught in the corner of the eye socket and cracked the surface of the warrior’s chitin, breaking away a portion of his skull. For a moment Taran caught a brief, sickening glimpse of the Yathoon’s naked brain, a reddish gray convoluted lump of wet, glistening tissue.

Then the warrior seemed to come apart at the joints and fell in a jumble of limbs to sprawl on the scarlet turf. He collapsed as a jointed wooden puppet might collapse if all of the puppet’s strings were severed in the same instant.

Koja then leaped sideways, avoiding strokes from the two remaining swordsmen, and, snatching up the whip-sword his fallen adversary had dropped, he addressed the twain with a sword in each hand.

Fighting with two swords is a particularly difficult practice, a matter for precise rhythm. I have seen it done in my time, but not often: Lukor can do it with amazing deftness, but I had not realized Koja’s own accomplishment in this specialty.

In less time than it would take me to describe the scene, Koja had felled the second of his opponents, and found himself once again engaged with his original foeman, Gothar―he of the crippled antenna. While Koja was otherwise engaged, Gothar had taken advantage of the momentary respite to rest and catch his breath. Now he attacked Koja with redoubled ferocity.

But now Koja was doubly armed! And perhaps Gothar had never before faced a single swordsman who held in each hand a dripping and murderous length of razor-sharp crimson steel …

When Gothar fell, clutching at his naked entrails as they oozed from the wide, ragged gash in his abdomen, Koja charged the other warriors who had lurked behind in order to permit their chieftain and the two warriors who were his lieutenants to have the pleasure of the kill.

Here the tree branches grew higher above their heads, and Koja was able to employ one of those incredible leaps into the air that make Kathoon barbarians feared opponents, dreaded by the swordsmen of more civilized parts of Thanator. Bounding over the heads of the first rank, Koja struck down between his bent legs with either sword in swift rhythm―flick!―flick!―and two more warriors sprawled, spouting crimson on the crimson turf.

When he landed on bent feet again, however, it was to find himself ringed in by foemen. The one who stood, as it chanced, at his back was waiting to strike just as soon as Koja’s steel had been engaged by one of the Yathoon in front of him.

When this happened, the warrior at the rear set his blade into a whirl, preparing to take Koja from behind. But, as Fate would have it, he was taken from behind, himself, although he did not at once realize it. The sharp, stabbing pain caught him quite by surprise, and he stared down to see the encrimsoned point of a slim rapier emerging from his vitals. He was still staring at it in blank bewilderment when the strength drained from him and he fell forward into gathering darkness.

Behind him, young Taran withdrew his rapier with a practiced twist of his wrist and whirled to strike at another of the warriors grouped around Koja. The arthropods had taken no notice in particular of the boy, obviously not considering him to be dangerous. The young of their own kind never partake in adult quarrels until they have achieved the Yathoon equivalent of what would in human terms be called puberty, and it is quite a common sight for a male Yathoon’s sons to stand idly by while their father fights to the death in a duel or similar engagement. The young Yathoon think nothing of this, being immune to filial sentiment.

Then too, such are the curious customs associated with the manner in which the Yathoon warriors raise their young, the cubs never actually know which warrior might be their own father, so to partake in any adult quarrel would seem unreasonable and pointless to them, even if it were not forbidden by their Horde traditions.

Koja had killed seven. of the enemy warriors and little Taran himself had slain another two of them, when one of the sub-lieutenants decided that the strength of numbers might just possibly not be sufficient to subdue these two strangers, and lent Destiny a hand―and rather an “underhand” it was, too.

In a trice this fellow (his name Koja later found out to be Uthak) had whipped out his lasso and tossed it at the fighting stranger. The first thing Koja knew about it was when the leather thong fell about his shoulders and tightened around his upper arms, pinning them to his sides. Then Uthak pulled the lasso taut with a savage jerk which yanked Koja off his feet. He fell to the ground and, before he could strive to free himself, other loops were whipped around his arms and legs. Within moments he was bound hand and foot, and was completely helpless.

Taran, however, was wary as a young wolf, and the Yathoon warriors found they could not snare him from behind as they had Koja, because the boy set his back against a tree and, using the point of his rapier, either flicked aside or cut through each lasso they tossed at him. Finally, they battered his slender blade aside and closed in on him. They beat him into halfconsciousness with balled fists and took his weapon from him.

They did not, however, slay either of their captives. When one of them, a warrior called Hoog who had one blinded eye, inquired of Uthak why he was permitting the two to retain possession of their lives, Uthak made a sensible reply.

“Dead men make poor slaves.”

“That is so,” mused Hoog thoughtfully, savoring the essence of the remark with the manner of one to whom a Great Truth has been given.

“Besides,” added Uthak, who seemed to be in charge of the squad, now that Gothar was dead, “this carrion”―he kicked Koja lightly in the side as indication of which particular carrion he referred to―“slew the chieftain Gothar and six other warriors. He is no novice with a sword. If it is the decision of Fanga that he be permitted to continue living until we reach Sargol, then he may afford us some rare entertainment in the Arena.”

“That is also true,” admitted Hoog slowly. Then―and he would probably have smirked obsequiously if Nature had provided Yathoons with the prerequisites for smirking―he added, “I admire the superior reasoning powers of the juru-komor Uthak.”

Uthak nodded slightly, as if giving a receipt for the compliment.

Taran, lying there groggily while he was bound, wondered dimly what or where Sargol was.

Koja, who was also conscious, did not wonder about Sargol because he knew what it was. And it was bad news to him that the Clan whose captives they were seemed en route to Sargol, because he knew what happened there. And, anyway, he had other things to occupy his mind.

He was thinking about the Arena.

When his captives were disarmed, thoroughly searched, and had been lightly but securely trussed in such a manner that they could ride, sub-lieutenant Uthak led his band to where their thaptors had been tethered just within the borders of the little copse.

None of the Yathoons had bothered to look up above their heads, during or after the fight. But if they had looked up, they would probably have seen the scoutcraft moored to the branch above them. That they did not discover the flying vessel, Koja accounted the one small favor Fate hid tossed them, as one tosses a bone to a starving dog.

The Yathoons bundled their captives onto the thaptors that had belonged to the slain warriors and rode out of the copse. They did not bother to burn or bury the bodies of their fallen comrades; such ways were not Yathoon ways. The Yathoon is not a religious or even a superstitious creature, and therein he differs enormously from other barbarian nations, such as those of the Earth.

Neither is he at all sentimental. A dead body is just a dead body to a Yathoon: something to be looted of any useful or valuable possessions, and then to be simply left where it had fallen.

Having stripped the corpses, then, Uthak’s band rode away leaving them to the Callistan equivalent of crows.

Taran and Koja rode with them.

There was no sign of Fido. The othode had vanished into the brush at the first sign of the Yathoon squadron, and had still not reappeared.

At least he had escaped capture, thought Taran.

8 The Doom of Borak

The thaptors were tethered just within the edges of the copse, where they would be out of sight, hidden from discovery by any wandering predators or from the eyes of the hunters or warriors of an enemy Clan. Koja and Taran were assisted to mount the saddles, then tied in place with their hands tied behind them to render impossible any attempt at escape. The reins of their steeds were managed by their captors, who rode stirrup to stirrup on either side of them.

Thaptors are large, partly domesticated wingless birds or befeathered horses, or an unlikely combination of the two. Try to picture swift-footed, four-legged ostriches crossed with Shetland ponies and you will have a mental image of what they look like. They always remind me of the griffins or hippogriffs of legend and myth.

They have curved, parrotlike beaks and mad, round eyes. I call them “partly domesticated” because they have never been completely tamed or broken to the saddle and easily become cantankerous, restive, and uncooperative. Thanatorian riders carry a little dumbbell-like club called the olo which is hung on the saddle-bow, with which to beat their steeds into docility whenever they take it into their heads to ride off in some other direction than that in which their rider wants to go, or attempt to bite a piece out of his leg, or both―which they do quite frequently.

The squadron of warriors .that had been under the chieftaincy of Gothar had obviously been a party of hunters out scavenging for game, for the captors of Taran and Koja carried the carcasses of slain beasts lashed over their thaptors’ backs behind their saddles. This could have meant that the main encampment of the Clan lay some day or two days’ ride distant, thought Koja, which greatly increased his and Taran’s chances to break free and make their escape, especially since darkness had fallen.

However, such did not prove to be the case.

Within an hour or so, the hunting party entered the Yathoon encampment and rode between rows of tents toward the center of the temporary base. Koja learned about this clan by listening’ to the desultory conversations between his captors As they rode, and by reading the meanings of the tribal inscriptions painted upon the warriors’ bodies, saddles, accouterments, and war shields. The smallest of the six Clans, it was known as the Garukh Clan, and had been formed when the high chief, Fanga, withdrew with his retinue and followers from the great Kandar Clan when that clan had chosen another as high chief instead of Fanga.

The new Clan was quite small, as Koja might have guessed, with many cadets and servitors and slaves but few adult warriors. Bad blood existed between the Kandars and the members of the new Garukh Clan, and they were at open warfare. Any Kandar the Garukhs caught, they killed.

Perhaps I should explain here that the Yathoon barbarians are preliterate. They have no written language of their own and, with very few exceptions, can neither read nor write nor understand the universal written language of Thanator. They do, however, employ a crude and rudimentary form of sign language, a symbolism not at all dissimilar to heraldic blazonry. The trouble with these symbolic drawings is that they more or less mean whatever you want them to mean, and it takes a little getting used to them before you can make them out with any sort of accuracy, since the same symbol may mean six different things to members of each of the six different Clans.

By the time Koja had deduced that he and Taran had been taken prisoner by a chieftain of the Garukh Clan, and that the Garukhs had broken away from the Kandar Clan, with whom they were at war, he began to rejoice grimly in the fact that during his years of residence in Shondakor in the retinue of Prince Jandar he had gotten out of the habit of painting his tribal signs across his thorax.

And he would have begun to sweat, if he could, for Koja had been a chieftain of the Kandars.

It was late at night when Uthak led his hunters into the main encampment of the Garukhs, and too late to display his captives to the akka-komor, the high chief of the Clan, since that personage had already retired after a feast at which he had taken aboard a considerable quantity of the thin, sour beer which the Yathoon habitually imbibe in place of the wines or brandies brewed by the more civilized races of the jungle Moon.

The high chief, Fanga, was as coldly emotionless as were all of his kind, but of a truculence unusual among the Yathoon and given to deadly outbursts of ferocity. Not at all, you will understand, the sort of individual who takes kindly to being awakened in the middle of the night to examine prisoners. Therefore Uthak ordered Koja and Taran chained for the night in the slave pens, together with the various other captives and possessions of the Clan, deciding to report to Fanga on the death of the chieftain Gothar and the capture of a clanless Yathoon renegade and what Uthak considered his human slave, the boy Taran.

Most of the slaves and prisoners were already asleep when Hoog and Uthak brought the two new captives in and chained them to one of the poles sunk in the earthen floor of the pen for precisely that purpose. The chains were attached to their ankles, and while they were being secured to the pole, Koja looked around him keenly in the light of the torch Hoog held, getting a look at the other captives.

He was surprised to see a young human female among the slaves, and he was even more surprised to discover himself being chained next to a stalwart and powerful Yathoon whom he recognized at a glance, although they had not seen each other for many years.

“Jaruga, O Borak,” he muttered in low tones, once the warriors had withdrawn and they were left alone. “Many moons have risen and set since last we feasted together at the Games of Sargol. Do you remember Koja, chieftain of the Kandars?”

“Jaruga, O Koja,” replied the other, repeating the simple word of greeting commonly used among the members of the Horde. “I remember well how you bested me with the spear during the Games, and how I bested you with the bow. You would be wise to desist from mention of the Kandars here, for so great is the hatred and the jealousy with which the high chief, Fanga, regards all members of your Clan that instant death would be the echo of that Clan’s name, were you so foolish as to utter it in the presence of one of his warriors.”

“I thank you for the warning,” said Koja noncommittally. “But tell me, how come you here, chained like an ordinary slave in Garukh irons, when to my best knowledge you have succeeded to the rank of high chief of your own nation since last we met?”

“Alas, the Haroob Clan now groans under the lash of a traitor and a usurper,” said Borak grimly.

“Whilst I, their true leader, have been driven into exile and outlawry by trickery and deceit. The tale, however, is a long and an unhappy one, and is best saved for another time, as dawn is not far off and we must be rested for the morrow.”

“Tell me, then, but one thing more,” urged Koja. “That human female tethered to the far wall of the tent: who is she, and what is her nation? For she seems royal in dress and demeanor, and her coloring reminds me of a comrade from distant Ganatol.”

“The female indeed harks from Ganatol, as I have been given to understand, although we have not had speech together since she was chained amongst us,” said Borak. “Her name is Xara, and she is of the royal house of that city, captured by Fanga’s scouts while on an official mission of some sort to one of the southern cities; I believe it was Shondakor the Golden.”

“Indeed?” muttered Koja, his curiosity aroused. “How long has she been among the slaves of Fanga?”

“Not long: a month, perhaps a bit more. And now let us find what poor rest we can in the harsh chains of captivity,” said Borak. And, with those words, he turned on his side and slept.

Koja, however, did not sleep. He was wondering what mission had brought Xara, Princess of Ganatol, into the slavery of the Yathoon Horde.

The following morning the komad Uthak made his report to Fanga, who was far from pleased to learn that one Yathoon warrior and a human boy had slain nine of his huntsmen, the chieftain Gothar among them. Koja and Taran were brought before him in chains to be interrogated.

Fanga looked Koja up and down, while Koja observed him in return. The high chief of the Garukhs was a powerful adult arthropod and was evidently a veteran warrior of great prowess, for his chitinous armor bore many scars from ancient wounds gotten in combat or in the duello. There was something about the cold, unwinking stare of his glittering eyes that made Koja distrust him, and something in the grim, threatening set of his features that he did not like.

But he did not recognize Fanga, which was one thing to be thankful for. Apparently they had never before met, even in Sargol. That meant that Fanga did not and could not recognise him as a former chieftain of the hated Kandars.

“As a warrior of the Yathoon Horde, you must belong to one Clan or another,” observed Fanga heavily. “To which Clan do you owe allegiance?”

“To none,” said Koja levelly. And it was no less than the truth he spoke, for he had long ago given up his allegiance to the Kandars to join the retinue of his friend, Jandar of Shondakor.

“Then you are aharj?” queried Fanga. The word meant, approximately, one who was an outcast or an outlaw, forever exiled from membership in his native Clan.

Koja twitched his brow-antennae in the Yathoon equivalent of an uncaring shrug. “You have said it,” he remarked tonelessly.

The comment could be interpreted as meaning either “so you say,” or “you have guessed the truth.” Fanga chose the second interpretation, which was fortunate for Koja.

The high chief said nothing, but continued to stare down at Koja from his dais. He was a fearsome figure, was this Fanga, for as if his ghastly scars did not make him hideous enough, he chose to adorn his person with a girdle and a necklace made of grinning skulls―the skulls of humans and of Yathoons. He was grim and terrible, and little Taran shuddered at the look of him.

Then he nodded, absorbing the information, and did not bother to inquire further into Koja’s Clan. The reason for this was, quite simply, that when a Yathoon goes aharj he has foresworn all Clan allegiance. In simple fact, then, Koja was no longer a Kandar, and had ceased to be one the very moment he had ridden out of the Kandar encampment, assisting Jandar the Earthling to escape. Therefore, it made no particular difference what Clan Koja had once belonged to: an outlaw was simply that, an outlaw, and fair game.

It never occurred to Fanga that Koja might have been a Kandar. “Uthak says you are a master swordsman,” growled Fanga. “Is that true?”

“It is,” acknowledged Koja expressionlessly. Being a Yathoon, it was neither in his nature to boast or to affect a modest disclaimer of his prowess. The Yathoon tend in general to be the most honest and straightforward of all of the races of Thanator, for so emotionless are they that they simply tell the absolute and literal truth, ungarnished by flattery, egotism, or modesty. Koja knew his own talent, and he acknowledged it.

“Then we shall not give this aharj the swift execution generally afforded to aharj warriors when captured,” decided Fanga. “We shall save him for the Games.”

“And when, O Fanga, do we leave for Sargol?” inquired Uthak, newly raised to full chieftaincy to fill the command position left vacant by the death of Gothar.

“That has yet to be decided,” growled Fanga moodily. “But it will be soon enough, I warrant,” he added with a cold, gloating look at the impassive figure of Koja. “Too soon, for some among us. Take these captives away.”

Hoog, who had charge of the captives of Uthak’s tribe, set Taran to work grooming the thaptors. Koja he chained next to Borak on a work detail, and all that morning they labored together. During infrequent rest periods they found further opportunities to talk a little.

“How was it, Borak, that you came to lose your position among the Haroobs?” Koja asked during one of these brief respites from the day’s toil.

In measured tones which reflected absolutely no emotion, Borak related that he had ridden with his Clan into the grasslands that lay about the city of Tharkol about two years earlier. At that time he had been only a komor of the Haroobs, merely one of the dozen or so chieftains who led the several Haroob tribes under the command of Tugar, the high chief. Borak had taken several humans prisoner during a hunting expedition, it seems, and when these captives escaped, which was very soon after he captured them, the Clan was thereafter attacked by Shondakorian legions searching for these same lost humans, who were evidently persons of considerable importance in the Golden City of the Ku Thad.

Now, as it happened, Koja had independent verification of this part of Borak’s tale―for those people he had taken prisoner two years or so ago had been none other than Ergon and Glypto, Zamara of Tharkol, Darloona, my Princess, and I, Jandar.*

In their escape, the humans had driven away all of the Haroobs’ thaptors in a stampede staged as a diversion: therefore, when the legions came, the Clan was forced to fight on foot, and suffered enormous losses. Tugar, the high chief, accused Borak of criminal negligence and laxity in guarding his captives so carelessly, and would have had him put to death had not Borak claimed his right to challenge the high chief to personal combat.

This right, called tharaj, is a privilege that accompanies the rank of chieftain. Any chieftain may challenge the high chief of his Clan to personal combat at any time, just as any Clan chief may challenge the mighty Arkon or emperor of the whole Yathoon Horde to combat at any time.

Borak told of the battle, which had been a grim and terrible ordeal. After suffering many wounds he had at length slain the high chief and become high chief himself. But in gaining the throne of Tugar, he had incurred the enmity of a rival chieftain named Gorpak, who had never been particularly friendly with him when they had been of equal rank, and who now became his deadly enemy once he had achieved a rank superior to that of the vindictive Gorpak.

Gorpak, it seems, had either bribed or cajoled one of Borak’s followers, a natural-born schemer named Hooka, to incriminate Borak in a clever plot. The rivalry between Gorpak and Borak was well known to the warriors and chieftains of the Clan, and when Gorpak fell suspiciously ill of a complaint whose symptoms were similar to those caused by a certain poison called axad, and a phial of axad was found concealed among Borak’s trove of treasures, it was obvious to all that Borak had poisoned Gorpak in order to rid himself of a dissenter.

Of course, Gorpak was only faking his illness, and the phial of axad had been placed in Borak’s trove by the cunning Hooka.

The crime was an affront to the honor of warriors. Borak was deprived of the rank of high chief and declared aharj and driven into exile and outlawry, later taken prisoner by the Garukhs. Thus did Borak become a slave. Gorpak, making a miraculous recovery from his “poisoning,” had replaced Borak in the role of high chief.

Koja nodded, saying nothing. It was a cruel tale, and a hard turn of Fate. But life itself is hard and cruel in the wilderness of the Great Plains, where the savage and restless Horde wanders forever, at war with itself and with every other living thing upon the face of Thanator, the Jungle Moon.

9 Xara of Ganatol

Several days after these events, Koja was attached to another work detail and found himself chained next to the handsome young woman named Xara, who Borak the Yathoon had said was a Ganatolian of the royal house. He observed her unobtrusively, discreetly, curious as to her history, yet too diffident to strike up an acquaintance with a female of another species.

The Ganatolians are unique among the races of Thanator in that they most closely resemble the human inhabitants of my native world. Indeed, dress a citizen of Ganatol in human clothing, and you could set him or her down in the streets of Chicago or Seattle or Boston without attracting the slightest attention to his appearance.

This cannot be said, of course, for citizens of the Bright Empire of Perushtar, who are all bald and as red of skin as a ripe tomato. Nor can it be said of my own Shondakorians, who, with their golden skin, crimson hair, and green or amber eyes make a decidedly exotic appearance. Nor can it truly be said of the extinct or scattered races, such as the Sky Pirates of Zanadar or the bandit warriors of the Chac Yuul, whose physical characteristics differed considerably from earthborn humans.

The Ganatolians, in fine, have fair skins, eyes of blue, black, or brown, and sleek dark hair. They look like ordinary Englishmen or Americans, and are among the most highly civilized and cultured of the races of Callisto.

And Xara could only have been a woman of Ganatol. Her skin was as tender and as fair as that of a camellia’s petal, and her long thick hair was black as midnight and fine as silk. Her eyes were large, fringed with black lashes, and blue as any sapphire, and her lips were perfectly shaped, ripe, and luscious.

She was, in fact, a remarkably beautiful and desirable young woman. Even Koja, as alien to her kind as any insect might be to a mammal, had mixed with human beings long enough to recognize that she possessed an extraordinary loveliness.

She seemed sad and depressed, but resigned to her fate, saying little to her fellow captives, simply performing whatever tasks were assigned to her with docility and strict obedience. However, she affected not even to notice the presence of Koja at her side, never looked at him or spoke to him, and beyond a slight, disdainful wrinkling-up of her nostrils―as if she smelled something disgusting or repulsive―made not the slightest sign that she was even aware of his existence.

It is true that Koja, like all of his kind, possessed a distinct odor characteristic to the Yathoon. It was a sharp medicinal smell, as back on my native world, Earth, certain insects smell of formic acid. In point of fact, however, Koja’s odor was neither disgusting nor particularly disagreeable: in fact, I rather enjoy his smell. And, for Koja’s part, he once informed me that, to the senses of a Yathoon, humans also possess a distinct and characteristic odor which he does not find unpleasant.

He decided, however, that for whatever the reason, Xara did not wish to converse with him, and she desired him to leave her alone as much as possible. Some of the people of Thanator regard the Yathoon insectoids as lowly or subhuman forms of life, and even have a name for them―capoks. The word does not have complimentary associations.

Despite the unfriendliness Xara of Ganatol displayed toward him, Koja did what he could to make her burdens lighter, even taking upon himself certain of the dirtier tasks given to her by one-eyed Hoog, the slavemaster.

The first few times Koja did this, Xara pretended not to notice, although her curiosity was aroused. One who regards a Yathoon as a barely sentient lower life form does not expect to find them possessing the instincts of a gentleman. For this reason, Xara was intrigued by Koja’s protective ways and occasionally studied him intently when she did not think he might notice.

But on the sixth day after they were chained together, Koja deliberately interposed his body between the Ganatolian girl and the punishment of Hoog’s lash, and she could no longer ignore his peculiar behavior toward her.

It came about in this wise: they had been toiling together in the galley tent where the Yathoon prepared their food. Xara was weary from the long day’s labor and, when instructed to carry a huge platter of food into the adjoining tent where the chieftains ate, her ankle turned, she slipped, and spilled the food onto the ground. Hoog was upon her in a trice. Seizing her wrist, he twisted it cruelly and hurled her upon her face in the filth. But when he unlimbered his whip to beat her, suddenly Koja was there.

“Step aside, while I teach this female not to turn a feast into so much garbage,” growled Hoog, clashing his mandibles.

“It was my fault,” said Koja, “for I tripped her and made her drop the tray.”

“Your fault, was it?” snarled Hoog, making his whip sing in the air. “Then the punishment is yours as well!”

And while Xara lay there, petrified with astonishment, staring up with wide eyes, Koja stood with bent shoulders, stolidly and uncomplainingly accepting the bitter kiss of the lash that should have been hers. He did not utter a sound, and eventually Hoog wearied of whipping one who neither whimpered nor cowered, and turned away . to other business.

The Yathoon are not ordinarily a cruel people, for they seem to lack almost every emotion found in humanity, including the urge to be cruel as well as the impulse to be kind. Hoog, like his master Fanga, was somewhat unique in this respect, that they both seemed to faintly enjoy either inflicting pain upon the helpless or watching it being dealt out.

But they are essentially practical. An injured slave is a slave that can do less than an ordinary day’s work. Hence Koja was returned to his quarters so that the wounds caused by the whipping could be treated medically.

“Let me do that,” said an unexpected voice from behind Koja as he lay on a cot in order that his wounds might be cleansed. The next moment he felt the soft touch of human hands as they spread a soothing ointment which eased the sting of his cutsfor while the chitin armor is not easily cut, the cartilage which connects the plates of this armor is indeed vulnerable to such injuries.

Turning his head stiffly, he saw that the unguent was being gently applied to his back by none other than Xara of Ganatol.

That night they were chained together in the slave pens, and Koja without thinking arranged Xara’s sleeping-cloths for her.

“Why do you do things for me?” she murmured perplexedly. “Why did you accept the punishment that was my due because it was caused by my own clumsiness? Always I have thought that capoks are immune to kindness and to sentiment, yet you seem to possess these emotions.”

“I have learned gentle ways from gentle masters,” said Koja. “For I believe that I am the first of my race to have learned the meaning of the word `friendship.’ And I have learned also that a kindness given freely is oft repaid a thousand times over. Even a capok, my Princess, is capable of learning.”

The girl from Ganatol flushed scarlet to hear that word from Koja, and she bit her lip in vexation. A while later she spoke, in a subdued voice.

“Forgive me for calling you a capok, Yathoon.”

“I forgive it freely, for the word was spoken in ignorance,” said Koja.

“Have you … a name?” she asked shyly. “Mine is Xara of Ganatol.”

“My name is Koja, Princess.”

“How do you know that I am a princess … Koja?” the girl murmured.

The Yathoon warrior explained that Borak of the Haroob Clan had told him something of the circumstances surrounding her capture, and that she was a daughter of the royal house of Ganatol and had been en route to Shondakor the Golden when seized by Fanga’s warriors.

“That is true,” she sighed. “By now my royal father will have become convinced of my death, or of the futility of my mission to Shondakor, or perhaps of both.”

Koja surveyed the despondent girl, his glittering, jeweled eyes expressionless, his armored features inscrutable.

“I, too, desire nothing so. much as to reach the Golden City of the Ku Thad, together with my small human friend, the boy Taran,” he confessed. “Perhaps we can yet be of assistance to each other in securing our freedom, and together we can find our way to Shondakor. Two heads are better than one, as I have often heard Jandar remark.”

She glanced at him, surprised.

“Why should a Yathoon of the Horde seek the city of the Ku Thad? And how came you to be upon such close terms with Prince Jandar―if it is truly he of whom you speak?”

Koja patiently explained that he had long been resident in Shondakor the Golden, and that he was a courtier in the retinue of Prince Jandar, whom he accounted his first and oldest friend. Xara may perhaps be forgiven for viewing this information with some certain suspicion, for chieftains of the Yathoon have never been known to entertain friendly relations with the human beings who share their planet with them. And yet―and yet …

“Come to think of it,” she whispered doubtfully, “I have. heard it related that the two courtiers closest to the heart of Jandar of Shondakor are a swordmaster, whose natal city is my own―”

“My friend Lukor,” nodded Koja. “With perhaps the single exception of Jandar himself, the finest swordsman on all of Thanator―”

“―and a renegade Yathoon,” the girl finished breathlessly, “whose name I do not recall.”

“Myself,” said Koja solemnly. `

“We must talk further of these matters,” the Princess of Ganatol concluded doubtfully. Koja somberly agreed; he guessed that it had occurred to the Princess that he could have been an agent of Fanga, planted among the slaves to sniff out mischief by gaining the confidence of his fellow captives.

But there was nothing that he could think of to say that might reassure her.

While Koja found his new condition of slavery naturally irksome and degrading, Taran adjusted to the situation more easily and swiftly. Nobody paid any particular attention to the youngster. The reason for this was that to the Yathoon, an immature youth is not a full member of the tribal community, and is generally ignored and left to fend for himself.

Once beyond the years of infancy, the Yathoon young manage to attach themselves to the following of one of the warriors or chieftains, for whom they perform menial labor in exchange for training in the use of weapons. These adolescent Yathoon are considered “cadets,” and barely possess a personal identity of their own in the eyes of their masters, who in the majority of cases do not even know their names: they, are anonymous and virtually invisible. Taran fell into this classification.

He was mainly supposed to keep out (c)f the way and not make a nuisance of himself. True, he was chained in the slave pens at night along with the other captives, but during the days he was seldom assigned to any work groups.

This left Taran comparatively free and unobserved, and gave him considerable freedom of movement. He soon attached himself to the Princess of Ganatol, to stay with her and assist her on those occasions when Koja was assigned elsewhere. Xara used these opportunities to question the boy, who spoke freely of Shondakor and carelessly confirmed Koja’s high position at court and his close relationship with Jandar.

The boy was so open and guileless in his manner that even Xara could not believe him a dupe or a spy.

He was obviously what he said he was, which meant that Koja was, too. Xara began to feel ashamed of having entertained suspicions of the Yathoon warrior who had taken the blows of Hoog’s whip in order to spare her that indignity.

Very soon, Koja and Taran and Xara formed a small nucleus of conspiracy within the body of the Garukh slaves. Borak found himself aligned with them, for, although such emotions as loyalty and friendship were alien and all but incomprehensible to such as he, self-interest provides a powerful incentive for learning new things. Certain common bonds of comradeship existed between Borak and Koja already, and these were further strengthened by their mutual determination to escape from slavery to Fanga.

It was these feelings that set them apart from the other slaves, and the very isolation they felt from the others drew them more closely together. The others who shared the slave pens with them were mostly Yathoon, with a sprinkling of human captives, Tharkolian, or Perushtarian, including a few of the Ku Thad who lived and hunted in the Grand Kumala. For the most part these others were a listless and dispirited lot who had been brutalized and depersonalized through years of hopeless captivity and unremitting toil until they were little more than beasts of burden, devoid of will or the power to make decisions on their own.

Escape was always a possibility, however remote, for two reasons. In the first place, the Garukh Clan was small in number and could spare few warriors for guard duty over the slave pens, and even fewer for sentry duty over the perimeter of the camp. Then again there was the inflexible Yathoon attitude toward slavery in general: a slave was a subhuman, a soulless thing, and the Yathoon considered them almost incapable of independent thought. Those of the slaves who were themselves Yathoon felt very much the same about their condition, which seemed to them hopeless.

The arthropods of Thanator share a deadly sense of fatalism, of Kismet, which saps the will and robs them of the ability to think and plan for themselves. From his years of associating with humans, Koja had largely outgrown this simplistic philosophy, but Borak felt it deeply. The former Haroob chieftain, however, had a powerful motive for freedom in his ‘unsleeping desire to be revenged upon Gorpak and Hooka for their villainous treachery.

It was this hunger for vengeance that enabled Borak to shrug off the lethargic effects of va lu rokka. This phrase sums up the fatalistic philosophy which dominates the Yathoon race. It may be translated as “It was destined,” and it is the stolid and uncomplaining Yathoon comment on each and every turn of events.

But Koja, Taran, and Xara did not believe va lit rokka, and persuaded Borak to join with them in seeking to escape. It did not prove very difficult, for Borak, like Koja, was more intelligent than most of his kind, more of an individual, capable of independent thought.

All that was needed was for the proper opportunity to present itself. Before this came about, however, Fate took another turn, and one that would probably prove to be for the worst.

For Fanga gave the command to break camp, and the Clan made ready to depart for the unknown south, where lay the secret heartland of the Yathoon race.

10 The Garukh Ride South

For two weeks we had flown south from Shondakor, searching the broad and fertile grasslands of the Great Plains of Haratha for some sign of our missing friends. Thus far, at least, our quest had proved futile, for no slightest sign had we yet discovered that would prove a clue to the whereabouts of Koja or Taran or the two othodes.

My personal squadron had now reached the middle point of the plains, halfway between Shondakor and the South Pole. From here the mighty prairie of crimson grasses stretched in every direction for hundreds of korads.

“The area is simply too vast for the squadron to search in formation,” argued burly, truculent Ergon. “It is a waste of time and manpower, my lad―my Prince, I mean.”

“If it is your considered opinion that we should split the squadron up and search in individual craft, friend Ergon,” said Lukor of Ganatol spiritedly, “then I must agree with you, for your opinion concurs with mine own.”

We had landed that eve on the shore of one of the twin rivers, had hunted down a herd of migrating vanth and made our kill, and were roasting dripping haunches of meat over a roaring bonfire while resting after the day’s vigilance and toil.

My squadron is an honor guard composed of thirteen scoutcraft and my personal yacht, the Shondakor.

Generally, these ornithopters are manned by a select crew of Sky Navy personnel, assigned to the palace squadron according to a system of rotation. On this particular occasion, however, many of my friends and courtiers had volunteered to take part in the search. Among these were the bald, burly Perushtarian gladiator Ergon, with whom I had fought side by side in the Arena of Zanadar, and who had become one of my closest comrades. Lukor, of course, could not be left behind:, the peppery, gallant little sword-master loved nothing more than a good fight, unless it was an adventure in which, at some point, a good fight might be expected to occur.

Prince Valkar, the stalwart young Shondakorian noble who was related to my Princess, also had joined the quest. We had met years before while both of us happened to be serving in the Chac Yuul, disguised as common mercenaries. As well, that scrawny guttersnipe Glypto was with us on this search, for as Kaamurath’s master spy, the sharp-tongued and wily little thief had accompanied his royal master on his recent state visit to the Golden City of the Ku Thad.

Over our dinner we considered the problem of searching so vast an area as the entire southern hemisphere of Thanator with only fourteen ships, and argued the various points of view which were presented as, one by one, the glowing, multicolored moons ascended the skies like jack-o’-lanterns.

And by the time we were done and were ready to seek our cloaks for a well-earned night’s sleep, we had reached the only reasonable solution to the problem that confronted us. We had resolved, in fine, to divide our squadron up, each craft to search by air a particular quadrant of the plains, with a point of rendezvous previously decided upon, where all ships would return to reunite the squadron.

If any ship did not return at the appointed time, that would constitute a signal that the craft had sighted something that might be a clue to the whereabouts of the missing friends we sought. A careful record was made of the territory assigned to each craft in the squadron so that we should at once know to which region we should direct our attentions should one of the craft fail to appear at the rendezvous at the appointed time.

Tomar and Glypto were to search in the north, while Lukor and Ergon would take the east. Valkar and I were assigned to search in the southern parts, while my other friends were given their duty in the west. Each of us rode alone in a separate craft, together with one Shondakorian officer, except of course for the Shondakor, for my sky-yacht required a full complement of a dozen crew, due to its size.

Shortly after dawn we arose, broke our fast, filled our waterskins at the shore of the river, entered our craft, and departed to take up the search again.

Valkar’s companion, as it turned out, was a young officer named Kadar. Together they flew directly into the southwest, since the Shondakor was to cover the southeastern region of the plains. There was little conversation between them, for both were too busy searching the limitless plain of scarlet meadowland beneath their hurtling craft to waste words. They flew at the modest height of one hundred and fifty feet, for at so low an altitude the smallest object would be clearly visible, and by flying at this height they hoped to be able to spy the most minute scrap of wreckage from the Lankar-jan.

They found instead a woeful and hungry and miserably lonely survivor of the lost expedition.

It was Fido the othode!

Landing, they tethered their craft to some bushes which grew atop a low rise of hills, and Valkar swung down to the ground on the rope ladder to be greeted by a hysterical othode pup.

Fido cavorted around the smiling Prince in a veritable ecstasy of happiness. The pup had deemed himself hopelessly lost and had been merely wandering in circles, mournfully hoping to find his lost people again. Now he went mad with joy, recognizing Valkar either on sight or because his smell was familiar. The Prince knelt to pet the wriggling othode, who crept to him on his belly, whimpering and complaining, then sprang into the Prince’s arms, wetting his face with slobbering kisses.

“There, there, Fido,” chuckled Valkar, struggling to calm the wriggling armful of hysterically happy othode. “It’s all right―good boy, Fido―good pupcalm down, now, and tell me all about id”

Once the pup had calmed down a bit and had hungrily devoured a portion of the remnants of yesterday evening’s vanth steak, Prince Valkar and Kadar tried to coax Fido to lead them to Taran and Koja. The pup was agreeable but bewildered, not able to comprehend what his human friends desired of him. He charged off gleefully in this direction or that at Valkai s urging, only to stop after a bit and turn, to squat with lolling tongue and eager eyes, awaiting instructions on the rest of the game.

Eventually, Valkar and Kadar had to give up.

“A pity the boy or Bozo never taught Fido how to track,” sighed the young officer. “Othodes are considered to have a most sensitive and keen sense of smell, and can track game for many korads. Fido, however, doesn’t even seem to understand what it is we desire of him.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” admitted the Prince wryly. “At least, we have found Fido, which suggests that Koja and Taran probably came this far, which means they may be somewhere in this vicinity.”

“Yes, my Prince,” nodded the lieutenant. “But, on the other hand, suppose Fido and Bozo merely went off by themselves, and that their leaving the city had absolutely nothing to do with Taran and Koja’s flight. In that case, finding Fido may have no connection at all with our hopes of finding the boy and his Yathoon friend!”

“You could be right, of course,” said Valkar. “Still and all, having found Fido is better than finding nothing at all.”

“If I may make a suggestion then, my Prince,” murmured the young officer diffidently, “let us take to the air again and search the area in ever-widening circles, using a spiral search pattern with the place where we spotted Fido as the center of the pattern.”

“Not a bad idea,” Valkar assented. “It’s obviously hopeless to try to follow Fido’s tracks in this thick grass, and he may have just been running in circles himself. Come, help me get him into the rear seat.”

Fido proved rather recalcitrant and uncooperative, for the pup had unhappy memories of having recently ridden in one of these ornithopters and was reluctant to undergo such an experience again, if he had any say in the matter. Between the two of them, however, Prince Valkar and the young officer managed to manhandle the yelping and ungainly othode pup into the rear part of the cockpit, tethering him securely with the safety straps so that he could not jump out again.

Then they ascended to their former height and began to scrutinize the plain, searching in everexpanding circles from the point where they had found the son of Bozo.

As for Bozo himself, the mighty othode had traversed the endless plains for sixteen days without discovering the slightest sign of his vanished friends.

In early morning, just before daybreak, he had come upon a nest of plump, timid uggars amidst the tall, dew-wet grasses. He had made his kill and had devoured the warm, fresh meat as if he were famished, which indeed he was. Then he had continued on at an easier, more comfortable pace until he succeeded in locating water. Once he had drunk his fill, the exhausted othode had rested for a time in the shade of thick-leaved low bushes which grew close to the ground.

Shortly after dawn, Bozo was suddenly aroused to full wakefulness from his weary slumber. The wary beast did not at once realize what it was that had triggered his awakening.

And then he felt it again, that faint, mysterious vibration in the ground itself.

Bozo lifted his head and cautiously sniffed the wind, but it was blowing from his back and even his sensitive nostrils could discern nothing.

Lying flat, the othode laid his ear against the ground and listened intently. A dull drumming, as of many feet pounding the earth. Dim thoughts moved through his puzzled brain. Was it perhaps the sound made by the hooves of a vast herd of vanth, for this was the season of the year during which the migrant herds of that elk-like animal are accustomed to wander the Great Plains in their numberless thousands.

Or was the distant vibration perhaps caused by a stampede of beasts, fleeing from advancing walls of flame? At times the endless leagues of scarlet grass catch fire, and the ensuing conflagration can rage on unchecked for days,, scorching many square korads black with ash, driving all manner of plains-dwelling creatures before its inexorable advance. But Bozo could not discern the bitter and unmistakable aroma of burning grass upon the morning breeze.

Whatever it was, the sound was coming in his direction.

And―it was coming nearer all the time!

Half an hour, or a trifle later, Bozo’s keen eyes saw a line of moving shapes upon the horizon. At length these moving objects became clearer, resolving into a rank of massive glymphs. These huge, ponderous, and lethargic beasts of burden, Bozo knew, are most commonly domesticated by man, and are used to draw wains, much in the manner of oxen.

Not that they resemble terrestrial oxen in the slightest, of course, for evolution has diverged widely on our two worlds. The glymph looks much more like the African rhinoceros, in fact, with a few details borrowed from an extinct species of dinosaur called triceratops. They are immense, heavy, lumbering, slow-footed creatures with a capacious bony shield which grows back from the skull to protect the back of their necks. The brow shield and their hooked, beaklike snouts are armed with sharp horns like the rhinoceros. Generally, their leathery hides are colored a dull slate-gray, which turns to pale yellowish ‘white at throat and belly. This hide is spotted or sometimes striped and splotched with patches of an amazing bright red, as if some teenaged hoodlum had amused himself by tossing the contents of a can of red paint over the hapless glymphs.

Bozo watched the line of plodding glymphs from his place of concealment under the bushes.

Soon he discerned that the ponderous brutes were harnessed to enormous metal chariots wherein rode a number of tall, gaunt, stalk-legged Yathoon warriors armed with twenty-foot spears. Behind the row of chariots came herds of smaller, more fleet-footed thaptors ridden by cadets and less-important warriors, servitors and artisans. Behind these came yet a second rank of glymphs, dragging huge, cumbersome wains which were filled with gear, folded tents, and stacked weapons.

And slaves …

A whimper of eagerness broke from the throat of Bozo the othode. But his instinct for caution overruled his eagerness, and he lay without moving, concealed from the eyes of the Yathoon scouts and outriders by the shadows of the bushes and the thick scarlet grasses.

The Yathoon caravan rolled slowly by and wound its leisurely way to the south.

Only when it had receded far to the south did Bozo emerge from his place of concealment. He stood for a long moment, staring after the caravan as it dwindled from sight under the golden skies of Thanator.

Then he turned south and began to follow it at a tireless lope.

For among those slaves bundled together in the mighty wains, his keen eyes had recognized the features of Taran and Koja.